


dinner & a show

by catwoman



Category: Marvel (Movies), Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Action/Adventure, F/M, Post-Series Pre-Movie, SHIELD, Spies & Secret Agents
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-09-09
Updated: 2012-09-08
Packaged: 2017-11-13 20:46:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/507565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catwoman/pseuds/catwoman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint wasn't sure what was sexier - the voluptuous, though tenderly subtle curves of the throwing knife nestled snugly against the bend of her thigh, or the hungry stare that seemed to betray the reasoning behind her moniker of the 'black widow'. </p><p>He was probably going to have to say the knife.</p><p>{ Set before the events of Thor/the Avengers, when Natasha was still a rogue that Clint needed to take out. }</p>
            </blockquote>





	dinner & a show

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first ever attempt at Blackhawk so be gentle, yeah? I'm going off the characterizations from the movieverse because I am completely ignorant of the comics (though I have wiki'd things so I wouldn't absolutely butcher the characters). That being said, I took some liberties with Natasha's character, since I am a trifle unsure of how she used to act before being recruited by SHIELD. If she acted differently at all. Idk. Fuuuuu-

“ **The least you could do is offer to buy a woman dinner before you kill her.** ”

Clint casually glanced at the source of such a bold comment, idly noting the manner in which the woman’s black evening gown served as a stark contrast to the fiery curls tumbling down her shoulders and pooling just above her shoulder blades. Her voice, a calm alto, drifted effortlessly above the haze of conversation circling around the restaurant. There wasn’t a trace of her Russian heritage influencing her tone...or much else for that matter besides half-assed sarcasm. In the heart of one of the fanciest joints in town, the two made a pretty picture among the wealthy and elite that sat smattered around them. Just beyond the expansive glass panels to their immediate right lay a magnificent view of the ocean, which was currently reflecting light from the full moon that hung overhead. The drop down the cliff the building rest atop wasn’t terribly huge, perhaps fifty feet at most, but Clint couldn’t help but notice it certainly gave them a million dollar view...and also completely threw the idea of snipers out the window (pun certainly intended).The woman had picked an opportune place to have a dinner date with her mark, and it couldn't have been at a more inopportune moment. 

But despite the table separating them, he could easily make out every aspect of her person and had taken note of all her subtle details the moment he’d sat opposite her. Granted he knew most of it from the extensive report he’d read about her beforehand, but even if he’d been approaching her without any pre-conceived notions, he could easily tell you that she stood at approximately 5’7”, weighed anywhere from 139 to 148 pounds (all muscle of course), and had at least two small guns on her person as of that very moment. It would take her less than 1.4 seconds to draw any one of them and blow his head off, but for now she remained relaxed, elbows resting gently on the table with her hands laying atop the opposite forearms. Small diamond-speckled earrings gave him a ballpark of her apparent level of her wealth, but beyond that, she wore no jewelry or accessories. Her date was with death, so perhaps that accounted for the simplicity. 

Now quantitative data was fine and dandy, but the bigger question remained: who exactly this woman was. Her name was as graceful rolling off the tongue as her figure was in that dress: Natasha Romanoff. And that was about the extent of the information anyone had about her. Her background was a blank page, splattered only with blood, which was why he found himself in her company at that present moment. Normally S.H.I.E.L.D’s report on his intended targets were filled with every speck of information about their lives, from psycho analyses to even the smallest traffic violations...but she was very good at burning her bridges.

It was very boring to know the end of a movie before you watched it. This woman, however, was something else entirely – a blank tape.

She was a complete mystery… A _challenge_. 

“ **I hope this isn’t too forward of me, seeing as how we just met and all, but let me just say that the knife you’re concealing on your hip really brings out the shade of green in your eyes. It’s quite lovely,** ” Clint eventually replied. He was a smartass at the best of times, and despite being in the presence of such a deadly adversary, he decided to play her little game. He watched her left hand slowly – painfully slowly - stray to the lit candle marking the center of the table between them, as intensely as, well, a hawk. She traced around the edge of the clear glass holder it was nestled in with one slender pointer finger before letting it stray directly over the flame for the briefest of seconds. He was on edge, but nothing in his demeanor betrayed his intense suspicion. Leaning back in the fancy mahogany chair he was seated in, every muscle in his body gave the appearance of being relaxed, when really he was ready to expect anything.

“ **I’m really hoping the man with a .50 Desert Eagle in his pocket doesn’t begrudge me a bit of insurance to guarantee my safety. That is what type of gun it is, right? Or are you just really glad to see me?** ” 

Natasha allowed herself a fleeting smile to accompany her statement, continuing to play with the flame between her fingertips as she and Clint continued to size one another up. They were like two alley cats, stalking around each other, seeing which one could find a weakness first before striking. 

“ **I must admit, you’re not exactly who I was expecting, although I’m sure that was your intention.** ” The subtle irritation in her statement made itself felt, and the pace at which she dipped her fingertip over the flame grew more agitated. “ **So tell me Mr. Barton, to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?** ” She inquired a tad airily, watching the dancing shadows cast by the flickering flame across the man’s lined face.  


Nothing much shocked Barton at this point but he had not expected her to know his name. His eyebrows ascended slightly as he made to cross his arms, though very loosely…just in case.  


“ **Oh, so you are capable of human expression and not just staring intensely. Thank goodness - I was starting to get worried your face was stuck like that.** ”  


“ **How do you know my name?** ” Clint asked, treading cautiously before speaking now, ‘lest he give the woman anything else to use. He was genuinely curious though highly doubtful she would honor him with any sort of substantial answer. 

“ **You’re not the only one with connections,** ” Natasha shook her head a bit, dropping her fire-happy hand from the candle to the butter knife set neatly on top of the crimson cloth napkin arranged in a delicate array before her. She felt the dull blade against her touch, and Clint became vaguely aware of a certain satisfaction radiating off her as she caused him to unfold his arms and place them on the table in front of him.

“ **Speaking of connections, I’d love to know yours. It’s not often that people get under mines’ skins. But I guess they owe that all to you, don’t they? And let me just say that this little arrangement was damn near impossible to set up. You’re good, Ms. Romanoff...and I do hope that is your real name.** ” He picked up his ice water, gave it a small swirl, then set it right back down. “I know you were probably thinking this night was going to end up with a run of the mill assassination but, well, sorry to disappoint.”

“ **Oh don’t worry, the night’s still young.** ” Cattish in her manner, Natasha glanced around, eyes sliding over the faces of every person in the general vicinity before settling back onto Barton’s face. “ **I imagine your people are swarming this building as we speak. And then of course we have the two gentlemen at the bar, the blonde woman sitting adjacent to the fountain, and the brunette carrying the platter. You should really tell them to be less obvious next time. And they’re incredibly ignorant if they think I came here alone.** ” She stated calmly, at the same approximate time Barton was feeling thoroughly impressed she’d managed to pick up on every damn on of the S.H.I.E.L.D agents who had been stationed around the place. Of course there were more skulking about in the shadows, ready to converge at a moment’s notice…but she also had people. And there were civilians around, though they’d been working to replace them as quickly and quietly as possible. 

He was beginning to realize why she picked such a public place now. Her mission, from the bits and pieces S.H.I.E.L.D had managed to assemble, was to meet with one of the most influential politicians in the entire state of New York. The people she worked for – mysterious as they were – had influence everywhere, which also included the more unfriendly kind, a.k.a. blackmail. It was your typical scenario: puppet learns too much, ceases to become useful, and loose ends have to be tied up. Unfortunately for Ms. Romanoff and co., this was not Barton’s first rodeo, and he had been monitoring her very closely over the course of the past few months. They’d been patiently waiting for their chance to strike, which is what brought him before her now, done up in a black dress shirt and dress pants with a white tie (which was easily removable so it wasn’t liable to get in his way if things got violent). It was perhaps the classiest get up he’d ever worn to a round-up situation. He just really hoped he didn’t stain his new shirt. 

As he opened his mouth to say more, a young waiter approached them, offering a happy-go-lucky smile as he placed menus in front of both Clint and Natasha. “ **Good evening! Can I start you off with anything to drink? We have a wonderful selection of wines-** “ Clint waved a hand to silence him, never fully taking his attention off Natasha but carefully directing (most of) his gaze to the waiter. What the hell was he doing there? SHIELD had specifically been trying to isolate the situation – where had the idiot kid come from?! This situation had gone from manageable to really bad in ten seconds flat. But maybe Clint preferred it that way. “ **We’re good for right now. Tell you what… don’t come around to take our order until I signal you, ok? Don’t worry, you’ll be getting tipped nicely.** ” The waiter looked a bit put off, but nodded, unsure of himself and the sudden harsh tone Clint was addressing him with. “ **Uh, yes sir, just let me know whenever you’re read-** “

“ **Excuse me? You should never deny a lady her wine! Just ignore him, dear. My husband really can be quite rude sometimes,** ” Natasha tutted gently, giving Barton the most fake look of innocent coyness he’d ever witness in his life. It made his blood run cold for a moment because he had a feeling what was coming next. “Can you just explain to me the difference between…” She lured the young man close by pointing to a small word on the menu, and although Barton stood up so quickly his legs rammed the underside of the table, it was too late. The waiter had leaned forwards enough so that Natasha easily wrapped her fingers around his shirt collar, pulling him forwards between herself and the glass window behind her. 

Clint had his gun drawn in half a second, but of course the barrel was aimed directly at the face of a terrified looking boy. The young man was currently vocalizing his protests in the form of strangled half-gurgles as Natasha effortlessly cut off his air supply with his own shirt collar. Half her face was revealed, however, illuminating her jade-tinted stare and the faintest trace of a smirk. 

“ **Well Mr. Barton, the pleasure’s been all yours. And since I know we’ll cross paths again, here’s a little tidbit for what is no doubt a woefully short report on me: I always get my mark.**” The glass directly behind her shattered into a thin spray of fragments, and despite practically leaping over the table (and the dazed waiter who’d been mercilessly shoved forwards), Barton only managed one shot – one that he knew had struck only the oily blackness of night.  


As every SHIELD agent and their mothers surged forwards from where they’d drawn their guns and held their ground, Clinton disregarded all of them as he peered out of the broken window, looking down the at the cliff below. He saw nothing but the distant mark of sea foam against a craggy shore, but knew that they would certainly not find a body, living or dead.


End file.
